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The Play, January 31st, 1017
The sprawling city of Leva Adium was freezing this time of year. Even the warm running water of the reservoirs did little to fight the bitter cold that drifted down between the peaks of Gildorian architecture. Upon the riverfront of the Gliam was erected a noble theater that had stood since the city had first been built; this was Gliamfront. Two men now approached the doorways as a popular play proceeded inside. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been back this way,” Sinthaster said. “Oh you think?” Darshia said with a smirk. “I have the feeling it’s been somewhat longer for me.” “Yes, well, not everyone has the blood of gods in their veins keeping them alive for several hundred years.” Sinthaster said, patting his friend on the back. “Are you sure you’ll be alright in there? I could come with.” “No,” Darshia said. “You have Darkmoon matters to attend to and you’ve already brought me this far. Besides, the invite is for me.” “You know this is one of my favorite plays, Darshia,” Sinthaster said, eyeing the crowd that had formed outside the Gliamfront theater. “Well, I’ll be sure to let you know how accurate it is to the real thing,” Darshia said with a wink. “Goodbye, Sinthaster.” “Seven guide you, young prince.” ……… The inside of Gliamfront theater was bustling with the merriment of patrons enthralled with the choreography of the stage. Tonight was showing one of the most popular performances of the Age; the ineffable play Whitefang. Nobles and commoners alike flooded the large domed building to see their favored thespians reenact the tragedy of the late Arik Whitefang. He had been the last of his line to sit upon the Gildorian throne, and oh what a story it was. Music, smoke and the clamber of laughing patrons made for a claustrophobic evening. Darshia had only ever seen so much chaos on the field of war. The prestigious theater hosted this play many times annually, as did countless others. Even outside of Gildor, this rendition of the story had become the most popular retelling of the tale of the Whitefangs and the War of Six Kings. No scholar nor scroll had the sway of debauched actors in a play. To the people of Lancerus, this version of the story was the only version. “I see you made it,” came a gruff voice from behind. Darshia turned to see a giant of a man cloaked in wolf furs and worn leather. A wrinkled face, obstructed by a graying beard, showed a genuine kindness that Darshia was welcome to see. “Hail, Tigahn Dailar,” Darshia said, extending it for a handshake. Tigahn took a hold and yanked him in for a bear’s embrace. Darshia, despite his divine blood and battle prowess, had not seen it coming. He was nearly knocked unconscious by the strength of this man. “Well met, Darshia,” Tigahn said. “I hope you will forgive me for saying, but this is the only proper greeting for brothers of Gildor.” He allowed the startled Whitefang time to recover. “Nashuss is waiting for us up above. Take this,” Tigahn said, extending a waterskin to the prince. “You’ll need this.” “I am not thirsty, my lord.” “You don’t need to be thirsty to enjoy a good swig of Faust. Better you down this first, brother. Negotiations up there will sober you up anyways.” ……... “Please, gentlemen, have a seat,” Nashuss said, rising from his seat to welcome Tigahn and Darshia. “The show is already well underway.” Tigahn and Darshia took their respective seats; Darshia to the left of Nashuss and Tigahn to his right. Their escorts and bodyguards stood behind, their focus untraceable through the visors of their cold steel helms. “What play is this?” Darshia asks, a twinge of trepidation at the answer he knew was coming. He shifted uncomfortably in the plush silken seat. He didn’t know what ‘diplomatic negotiations’ really were. “This is a play that is very important to my people, Darshia,” Nashuss replies. He makes a quick glance to his left and right. “Our people.” Tigahn nods approvingly. “I’ve seen it myself during diplomatic visitations to the heart of Gildor.” Nashuss smiles, knowing full well that this is perhaps the only play Tigahn has ever seen. “It’s called Whitefang, an epic tragedy by the bard Egful Crowlance who lived during Arik’s time.” “During my father’s time,” Darshia says, his eyes now transfixed upon the actors below. Nashuss scoffs at the remark, though he allows the gesture to remain unheard by the other men. “The play,” Nashuss continues, “details the rise and fall of Arik Whitefang and the War of Six Kings. Mind you, it is heavily romanticised…” An actor, portraying Arik, slaps an actress dressed as a courtesan on the ass. She makes an exaggerated face before vaulting into the audience. The crowd erupts with laughter. “I prefer the term ‘historically-inspired’,” Tigahn remarks. Darshia is mesmerized by the raucous display. Arik was never known as a debauched man until the war when political enemies began to spread dissent. The false reputations still followed him now, nearly 300 years after his death. “They mock my father,” Darshia says softly. “Yet, it is hard to defend him. It is hard not to take their side in this spectacle.” “And yet it still feels wrong,” Tigahn says. The other two men look to him now, his aged brow a mountain range of furrowed concern. “Most people these days remember so little of the truth of that horrific war; instead they prefer this bastardized version that paints our history with a wide brush of perverted escapades and hyperbole enough to choke an ox.” “Darshia,” Nashuss asks, “how old are you?” Darshia looks at Nashuss now for the first time this night. The man’s face is worn from worry. The last few years have aged him a lifetime and he wears it poorly. Still, there is glints of hope in his eyes. “Older than both you and Tigahn combined,” Darshia says, “and quite some more still.” Nashuss turned slowly, eyeing the features of the Whitefang to his left. He smiled and brought a small, ornate cup to his lips. After soothing his aged tongue with spirits he laughed. “The rumor is that you killed your siblings under tutelage of Elven mages and somehow stole their life.” Darshia did not smile at the joke. Nashuss noted and drank again. “So,” Nashuss said, finishing his drink, “I am sure you know, Tigahn, about why I have summoned you here.” “I do, but Darshia may yet be privy.” Nashuss turned to Darshia; the man was fixated on the stage. Two actors, portraying Arik and his eldest son, Arin, quarrelled in heated passion. The son was pleading with his father to see the err of his ways, to see that thousands of people lay dead because of his arrogance. From the corner of the stage, the younger siblings of Arin huddled in fear. One of them carried a prop meant to resemble a swaddled baby. That was Darshia. “How are you alive, after all this time?” Nashuss asked. Darshia did not look away from the stage. He was too young then to remember any of this, but his brothers and sisters had recanted the tale to him. He knew what was coming. Arin yelped as his mad father shoved a dagger into his heart. The children wept as Arik roared at the carcass. Darshia felt nothing. Even if he had been old enough to remember, he would not want to. “Why am I here, Nashuss?” Darshia asked, feeling the torture of watching his family be butchered before his eyes. “There is a new development in Gildorian politics, one that must be addressed,” Nashuss said. “The town of Baskerburg’s most recent census has revealed that their populace has grown in excess of 8,000 people. Per the laws of our land, the Duke of Baskerburg, Sigurd Alston, now has a seat on the Duchal Conclave.” Darshia turned to face Nashuss, hoping for some further clue as to what that actually meant. “It means,” Tigahn said, sensing the man’s trepidation, “that the dux responsum law comes into play. It states that whenever Gildor acquires or loses a Duke’s seat on the Conclave, if their is a reigning steward on the Gildorian throne, they most reconvene to vote again.” Darshia’s senses became keen to a cloud of foreboding hanging in the air within the room. “So that means that Nashuss is no longer guaranteed a seat on the throne?” “Correct,” Nashuss said with somber bitterness. “That is why I summoned you both here. Dux responsum will not take effect until the summer when the Conclave reconvenes. I ask you-” Nashuss hesitated, his silvering hair lilting into his eyes. “No, I implore you; you must both drop this foolish crusade to end my stewardship.” “And why is that, Duke of Greenwater?” Tigahn asked. “For the good of Gildor and the nations of Men, I need to remain upon the throne. I was the first and only choice of my predecessor, Aurhowm.” “Does that hold merit?” Darshia asked. “He was, after all, also a steward. Would not that claim hold less sway than blood-ties?” Tigahn laughed. “Welcome to the debate, Darshia. I was wondering when you would join us.” Nashuss interjected, his ringed fingers tight around his goblet. “I never pretended I was the proper king, and I have no intention of supplanting the Duke’s will with a dynasty of my own name. I know I am but a steward, and as a steward I shall reign. But reign I must.” “Why?” Tigahn said, his playful tone slowly dying in the wake of frustration and anger. “Why cede the throne of Man to one so passive? Do you not know what Age we are in? This is the end of the Fourth Age, the Godswalk is upon us! You are too weak a man to lead us through it.” Nashuss turned like a statue to face the stoicism of his rival. “How then am I weak, Dailar?” Tigahn met his gaze with an iron will forged by the heat of decades of toil. “I know that the outposts of Rhivic have been going dark. What have you done to save those men? I know that the orcs of Thangail and the Iron Mountains have grown bolder. What have you done to stop them? I know that the rivers run red with the blood of Gildorian sons as Larken bastards rape our women and-” “You know nothing!” Nashuss yelled. The theater grew quiet as all eyes drifted to the mezzanine. “You think it is so simple, Tigahn, that I just ‘wish’ these problems away?” “Ask the boy,” Tigahn said, gesturing to Darshia. “Tell us, Whitefang. You have seen bloodshed upon Gildorian soil. Has Nashuss been among your brothers? Has he even sent you aid? You had been in Elvish hands for years, why had he not done anything?” Murmurs flooded the theater at the mention of the Whitefang name. Darshia felt a hundred eyes fall upon his head. In that moment, he missed the solitude that shaped his youth. “Tigahn,” Darshia said. “This world is filled with inconsistencies and fallacies. The trials of King are not so well understood to any but those who have bore the crown. I believe Nashuss is doing a fine job.” He looked down at his hands; they were the hands that slew the Rock. “But fine will not see us through the Godswalk.” “You see?” Tigahn said. “Even the boy thinks I should lead!” “I never said that,” Darshia said, the sharp lines of his face collapsing into a scowl. “I mean you no disrespect, Darshia,” Tigahn said, “but you are yet a boy, despite your claim at centuries of age. Though your blood supposedly runs with the fury of the gods, I would not entrust the future of my people to one who hasn’t even the capacity to grow a beard.” Nashuss’ guards became uneasy at the stirring of the crowd below. Nashuss paid them no mind, however, and stood from his padded chair. “This farce has gone on long enough. I will say this but once and only once. Darshia, your legitimacy to this throne is null. Be thankful I do not throw you in prison.” Darshia said nothing. “Tigahn,” Nashuss resumed, “should you rebel against me when the Conclave meets again, rest assured you will condemn your duchy to the blood of your serfs.” Tigahn rose like a mountain in the storm. “Is that a threat, Khal?” “Enough!” Darshia roared. The two Dukes spun to see his eyes alight with fury. “I will not let you two tear each other apart, nor will I let you tear Gildor apart. This is my home-” “No, it isn’t!” Tigahn roared, pushing past Nashuss and alerting his guards to shift their weight to their swords. “You spent most of your life in the care of the Elves, far away from the concerns of the common man. Do not pretend to know the pains of our mortality.” His fists tightened and made the leather of his gloves moan. “I respect your skill as a soldier and pray to the Seven you always fight for Lancerus, but a King you are not.” “None of us are,” Nashuss said. “And if I have my way, none us ever will be.” Tigahn spat on Nashuss. One of his guards moved to intercept the raucous Tigahn only to be met with a swift and powerful headbutt. The guard collapsed. Nashuss slowed his other guard to allow Tigahn to speak his mind. “Know this, Khal. I will do all I can and more to see you removed from power. Lancerus needs a King in Leva Adium, not a steward. Seven’s will be done.” With that he retreated down the stairs as onlookers gaped and awed. Nashuss, drained of life, turned to Darshia. “Leave this place, Whitefang, before I have you tried for treason.” Darshia remained silent. He gathered himself and stepped down the stairway. As he reached the bottom, he turned back towards the gathered crowd and shouted. “People of Gildor, my name is Darshia Whitefang. I am the youngest son of Arik Whitefang and the true successor to the throne of this grand city. Should you wish to know the truth of my words, come to the Sept of Matthias where I shall claim sanctuary.” The crowd was liable to riot at the sight of Arik the Mad’s heir. Their play, it seems, had become more real than they could have imagined. From the floor above Nashuss watched with aching eyes. Darshia stared him down in one last promise of defiance before leaving the Gliamfront theater. Nashuss collapsed into his chair, motioning for his remaining guard to stay and watch. “Where were we?” Nashuss shouted to the thespians. “Has the Whitefang died yet?” Category:World Lore